Challis - 05 - Blood Moon (36 page)

Your wife didnt look too pleased
just now.

Leave her out of this.

Challis said thoughtfully, Of
course, a more sinister explanation suggests itself. You tipped off the
Ebelings that the old house theyd purchased in Penzance Beach was about to
come under a heritage protection order, so theyd better move fast if they
wanted to demolish. Ludmilla found out about it and threatened to ruin you. Or
was it blackmail?

I dont know what youre talking
about.

How much did the Ebelings pay you?

I have a passionate commitment to
protecting the Peninsulas heritage, spluttered Groot. Flora, fauna, heritage
buildings...

There was a pause while he wiped his
forehead and temples and under his soft jaw. Im a conservative planner.

We have your financial records
going back five years, Challis said. He didnt elaborate.

Groot looked lost and bewildered.

Challis poked the photographs again.
You followed her.

I didnt! I mean, I did, but only
because Id spotted her on the road by chance and was wondering what she was
doing in that neck of the woods. We at Planning East are aware of accusations
that we take bribes. Where theres smoke, theres fire. Ludmillas job placed
her in a very sensitive position.

Challis was disgusted and let it
show. Blame the victim, right?

Groot shifted his bulk. His shirt
collar had darkened as his body, his guilt and the rising heat of the interview
room betrayed him. Its my responsibility as department head to

You followed her, you murdered her
to protect yourself from being outed as corrupt.

No! I saw her turn off the main
road and realised she was going in to check on that house where all the trees
had been cut down. It was a legitimate detour for her, so I just kept going.
Went back to the office.

Challis switched tack again. Youve
had some work done on your house.

Groot flushed. So?

A developer like Hugh Ebeling would
have plenty of tradespeople in his pocket. His bribe payments dont go directly
into your account but into theirs: thats how he pays you.

Certainly not.

Challis displayed more photographs. These
clumps of mud were found at the murder scene. Theyre unique. First, they can
be matched to a marshy area on the Peninsula. Second, they can be matched to
the wheel arch of a Mercedes 190 E
your
car, in fact.

Groot looked aghast. His mouth was
as dry as his big, fleshy trunk was soaked through. There are plenty of these
old cars around.

But not plenty that still have
traces of mud clinging to them, traces that can be shown by chemical analysis,
computer enhancement and 3D digitalisation to match exactly the clumps that had
once adhered to the passenger side rear wheel arch and later fallen off at the
murder scene, traces that can be shown to come from a marshy area that youd
visited as part of your duties. More bullshit, but it sounded good.

I think I need a lawyer.

I think you do, Challis said.

Scobie Sutton hadnt said a word but
was as happy as a habitually gloomy man can be, Challis thought, glancing at
the man beside him.

* * * *

The
lawyer arrived an hour later, a property lawyer from Mornington, a slender,
quick-moving man with a clipped manner and a sharp, off-centre nose. He
conferred with Groot, and emerged after five minutes saying, My client wishes
to make a statement.

By now Ellen had joined them and the
interview room was stifling, so Challis moved the interrogation to a conference
room that had taping facilities. When the equipment was ready, he announced
their names and the place and date and said, Please go ahead, Mr Groot.

Its true that I followed Mrs
Wishart last Wednesday, Groot said, and stopped.

Challis said, For the record, this
was on the afternoon of Wednesday the eighteenth of November?

Yes. Another pause.

Please make your statement, Mr
Groot, Ellen said.

I followed Ludmilla because I
wanted to talk to her, alone, out of the office.

Pause. Challis, Ellen and Sutton
merely stared at Groot this time.

Groot swallowed. I believed that
Mrs Wishart possessed potentially damaging information about me and I wanted to
clear the matter up with her. I have a wife and two kids and a huge mortgage to
worry about. If she made this information public, I faced losing my job, being
fined, maybe even going to jail. Plus people adversely affected by the planning
decisions made by my department would begin suing us for millions of dollars. I
couldnt allow that to happen.

Challis noted the word allow. He
watched and waited.

I followed her to where her body
was later found but I
swear
I didnt kill her. She was alive when I left
her.

He was begging to be understood,
begging to be believed. Challis waited.

I asked her not to ruin my career.
I said we could work something out. Sure, the Ebelings had demolished that old
house, but maybe I could swing it so the shire blocked their new one. She didnt
say anything. I dont know what was going through her head. I got really upset
and yelled at her but I didnt kill her. She was alive when I left. I swear it.

The planner folded his short arms;
the arms seemed to pop out again. Challis said, The break-in at the office.
You staged that?

Yes.

You were looking for any evidence
that Mrs Wishart might have against you?

Yes.

Did you find it?

Shed followed me! She had photos
of my car parked at the Ebelings house in Brighton!

He sounded outraged. Challis said
coldly, Just for the record, the wetlands mud inside your wheel arch came from
Frenchs Reserve?

Yes.

Challis was relieved to have
established that. Your conversation with Mrs Wishart got heated?

She wouldnt even look at me!

Ellen leaned forward. What did you
hit her with? A tyre iron, was it?

I didnt hit her.

The lawyer had been scribbling notes
and listening without interruption. Glancing mildly at Challis, Ellen and
Sutton, he said, You have your statement, people. There is no admission of
murder.

Challis ignored him. Athol Groot, Im
placing you under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Ludmilla Wishart on...
he began, going on to recite the familiar formula, thinking that all the guyd
had to do was maintain his story that it wasnt unusual for him to be driving
around the Peninsula, and claim that hed visited the Shoreham site on a
separate, earlier occasion. But he hadnt and now he was sunk.

* * * *

51

Pam
Murphy was collecting a file from her car when they released Adrian Wishart.
She wasnt supposed to park in the little slip road adjacent to the police
stationit annoyed the local residents and visitors to the stationbut everyone
grabbed a spot there if one was available, especially on weekends, and so she
had a clear view of the main entrance as Wishart stepped out with his lawyer.
He looked pleased, if bewildered, and shook his lawyers hand effusively,
pausing, shaking again, holding on, not wanting to let go.

Shed known something was going on
in CIU, but after lunch had moved downstairs to a small office behind the
lockup. It was her way of avoiding the sniggering and getting her work done.
She was snowed under today and didnt want Challis or Destry grabbing her for
some trivial and time-consuming CIU matter. Shed yet to complete the paperwork
on Josh Brownlee, and had been asked to write an informal from-the-point-of-view-of-a-cop-on-the-beat
contribution to the Schoolies Week reports that Sergeant Destry was compiling
for Superintendent McQuarrie and the town council. The schoolies report
promised to be a major pain in the bum. Pam didnt quite trust her own
impressions and decided to spend the afternoon reading the daily logs kept by the
uniformed officers and drawing up a questionnaire shed later distribute to the
towns shopkeepers, hoteliers and landlords.

Using an electricians van and a gum
tree to screen her from the windows along the front of the station, she slipped
across the road, heading for the side door. A voice said, Excuse me? Pam?
Excuse me.

She turned in agitation. A teenage
girl, a schoolie by the look of her: miniskirt, a short, tight T-shirt,
sandals, a bouncy blonde ponytail, a pretty, untroubled face, confirming Pams
opinion that a kind of natural selection was operating. If you were granted a
private school education and a week beside the sea after your exams, you were
also granted healthy blonde good looks. If you were poor, went to the local
high school and dropped out before Year 12, you looked like crap.

And sometimes the blondes knew they
were born to rule, but not always. This girl was one of the nice ones. Bronte-Mae,
said Pam with a smile.

It had been last Monday night,
Bronte-Mae somehow misplacing her wallet, keys, friends, sobriety and dignity.
Pam had saved her. Saving distressed kids was as much helping them see that
their circumstances werent hopeless as it was lending them twenty bucks and
putting them to bed.

And now here was Bronte-Mae again,
bubbling over, saying, I found this on the beach.

A small woven bag, the kind they had
in Oxfam catalogues. Im in the middle of something right now, Pam said. Can
you take it to the front desk?

Oh, said Bronte-Mae, her face
falling. Okay.

She was glowing but full of teenage
hesitations and helplessness. Finally she said, Its just that I think its
that ladys, the one who got murdered.

For a moment then, Pam grew very
still. Then she motioned with her hand.

Greatly relieved, sparkling with it,
Bronte-Mae released the bag. I found it last night, near Shoreham. I forgot
about it till this morningshe blushedwhen I woke up. She looked stricken suddenly.
Was it okay to search it? I only wanted to know whose it was. I didnt take
anything.

Pam worked her fingers over the
surface of the little cloth bag, feeling something small, hard and rectangular
within. If you were the kind of woman who bought Third World craft items, youd
keep your mobile phone, glasses or tampons in a bag like this. She couldnt see
a name anywhere. What makes you think the bag is Mrs Wisharts?

Theres a little birthday card
inside.

Pam eased open the drawstring top.
An iRiver MP3 player, with earphones, a USB cable, an instruction booklet and a
tiny card. Reluctant to touch anything, she said warmly, This is fantastic

Really? beamed Bronte-Mae.

Really, said Pam. She lowered her
voice confidingly. This is off the record, but weve been looking for this. I
have your contact details from last Monday. We may need a statement from you
later.

Glowing, Bronte-Mae began to
retreat. Okay, cool. Well, see ya! Thanks for everything! Ive had the best
week of my life!

A sexual glow, thought Pam. I can
relate to that.

She waved to Bronte-Mae, then hurried
in through the front door of the station. There was no straightforward route to
CIU from there. First she was obliged to use the security keypad beside the
reception desk, and then enter the warren of corridors behind it, passing open
office doors, the sergeants mess and half-a-dozen guys crowding around the
noticeboards, before finally climbing the narrow stairs, swerving to avoid a
couple of officers clattering down them. And, all the while, there was that
continued sense of whispers and subterranean nastiness in the atmosphere of the
building. Twice she out-stared a couple of guys who were gaping at her. What?
she demanded. Nothing, they muttered, hot in the face.

She poked her head around the door
of the incident room. Ellen Destry was there, gathering files together. Sarge,
I

Sorry, Pam, can it wait? Weve just
charged the chief planner with the Wishart murder and I

Ludmilla Wisharts MP3 player,
Sarge. Just been handed in.

The CIU sergeant went tense. You
sure?

Yes.

Where and when?

Pam told her. The sergeant pulled
out her mobile phone and dialled. Hal? Weve got Ludmillas MP3 player..
.Murph.. .the lab for prints...

Pam began to edge away, knowing
Ellen would find a dozen tasks for her to do. She needed to write those reports
first. She reached the corridor, the head of the stairs, the bottom of the
stairs, feigning deafness when Destry called, Pam?

* * * *

Her
bolthole behind the lockup consisted of filing cabinets, shelves of reports,
manuals and handbooks, and two computers. A constable from Community Liaison
had been pecking away at one of the computers, but hed been called away to an
emergency, and so the room was hers for now. She settled herself at the other
computer and began to write her initial impressions of Schoolies Week. Thirty
minutes later, she completed the first draft, saved it to her memory stick,
pressed print.